


when the sun kicks out

by queervengers (nonsexualandsilly)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, American Politics, Anxiety, Baking, Boston, Father-Son Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Group Bonding, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Overdose, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Negotiation, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsexualandsilly/pseuds/queervengers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so the prince took a medicine to calm his anxiety, and he slew trolls. And he took more, and he slew dragons.</p><p>Jack Zimmermann, better known to the world as Senator Zimmermann's addict son, rebuilds his life, one piece at a time. </p><p>NOTE: fic indefinitely discontinued</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i.................don't really like jack zimmermann i don't know why i thought i could write a giant fic about him
> 
> even with kent and bitty involved it wasn't working, and i'm distancing myself from the cp fandom after recent shenanigans. i'm not orphaning this because i'm an optimist, but.....yikes

Jack watches the smoke curl into the air as Johnson takes another hit off of his joint. "I dunno, man," he says after a long pause. "I just feel like it's time for a change, y'know? Gotta...further the plot or whatever."

Jack's lived with Johnson for a year now - he's used to his roommate saying weird shit at this point, so he mostly ignores it.

"Plus," Johnson continues, rambling in the way he tends to when high, "the lease is up in a month, so that probably gives you enough time to find a new roommate." He waves a hand in the air. "Vary up the supporting cast a little. No offense, but things are kinda stagnant as is."

Jack nods, already dreading the hunt for a new roommate.

 

 

Jack is on his fifth draft of his craigslist posting when he decides it's not even worth getting perfect - the apartment is nice and well-located, and he's got good photos of it. He'll find someone, he's sure. So he hits the button to post it and goes to bed.

 

 

He wakes up the next morning at five, goes for a run, and showers before checking his email.

A hundred and four responses.

He swears, closes his laptop, and pulls on his pants. He'll deal with the responses after work.

 

 

Jack's pouring the milk for a large latte when Larissa launches herself over the counter. He nods at her and then puts the latte up on the bar and calls it out.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" she asks as soon as he's wiped down the steam wand. He makes a face at her. She pushes him away from the bar and starts making her own drink while she talks. "You've got your broody face on, which is basically never a good sign."

"I don't have a broody face," Jack says. His face just looks like that, he's pretty sure.

Larissa rolls her eyes and squirts whipped cream onto her drink. "You totally do. You've worked here for a year, I know your expressions. What's the deal?"

"Johnson's moving out," he tells her as he starts restocking the cups.

She hoists herself onto the counter and sits next to the blender. He's pretty sure that's against some health code or other, but he's also pretty sure Larissa doesn't actually care. "Craigslist?" she suggests

"Already posted. More than a hundred responses."

"Overwhelming." He nods. "Anyone good?"

"Haven't looked."

"Want me to?" She makes grabby hands at him, and he pulls his phone out of his back pocket and hands it to her. She unlocks it before he can tell her the code, which he's pretty unsurprised by. Larissa basically knows everything.

She looks at the screen for a bit while he tidies up from the morning rush and helps a few customers. Once he's got things under control, he leans on the counter across from her. "Anything good?" he asks.

"Well," she says dramatically, "one dude has offered you, and I quote, 'hella excellent daily blowjobs in exchange for the room,' if you're looking for that. Worth noting that he spelled 'excellent' AND 'blowjobs' wrong."

"Charming."

Larissa is quiet for a moment as she reads. "Ooh, this one looks good. Do you do pets?"

Jack shrugs. "I like dogs. Depends on the pets, I guess."

"She attached pictures, let's see." Her eyes widen. "Looks like...four cats, a large dog, and I think that's...two snakes? Maybe three? They're kinda cute."

"This is hopeless."

"Nah, bro, we'll find you something."

Jack makes a face at her. "I'm gonna go do some dishes, do you mind taking register?"

"Only if I get to keep roommate hunting for you."

"No snakes," he tells her as he heads for the kitchen.

 

 

When he finishes the dishes, Larissa is helping a customer, but as soon as she's got the woman's coffee poured, she hands Jack a piece of paper.

He squints at it, but it's mostly weird abbreviations and doodles. "What does this even say?"

"Top five candidates, okay?" She points at one of the scribbles. "Rowan Mayer, 25, grad work at MIT, sounds kind of awkward but quiet? Jane Pierce, three jobs, probably wouldn't be around that often so that'd be easy. Jim Hunter, cop, didn't seem too insufferable and has really good credit. Scott Cohen, journalism student at Tufts, attached a picture of his abs and god bless. And, uh, someone from Harvard Law named Bartholemew Knight? Sent his whole resume and has worked for some pretty rad causes, plus he's into hockey so you could probably bond over that?"  
Jack shrugs. "Just pick one of them. Not abs guy. Surprise me."

Larissa grins. "On it."

 

 

A month later, Johnson has just finished moving out when someone bangs on Jack's door. He opens it to three guys, two of them even taller than he is. "Bartholemew?" he guesses, based on the shortest man's Harvard Law t-shirt, which is about the only indicator he's got - the guy doesn't look much like a law student, not with his sleeves cut off and his hair pulled up into a sloppy bun. 

"Call me Shitty," Bartholomew - Shitty? - says. "You're Jack?" Jack nods, and he thinks he sees recognition flash over Shitty's taller friend's face, but he ignores it, along with the accompanying dread. As long as nobody says anything about Jack's past, he can just keep ignoring it.

"I'm Ransom," the shorter guy says, "and this is Holster. We're just gonna help Shitty move in, and then we'll be out of your hair."

"My shit's all in the car, but I figured you should show me where you want things before I drag it all up here."

Jack nods. "Your room's this way. How'd you end up with a nickname like Shitty, anyway?" he asks as he heads for Johnson's old room.

"It's a long story," Holster says.

"Actually, it's not that long - " Shitty starts, but Ransom cuts him off.

"Yo, is that roof access?" he asks, pointing at the window at the end of the hall.

Jack nods - Johnson used to smoke out there most of the time, and sometimes when the weather's good Jack likes to read out there, even if it's not strictly legal.

"Sick," Ransom and Holster say in unison, before both running down the hallway. Holster yanks the window open and climbs out, Ransom on his heels.

Shitty shakes his head, but he's smiling.  


 

Living with Shitty is nothing like what Jack was expecting.

As soon as Shitty's unpacked, Jack's bookshelves are suddenly overrun with law textbooks and a truly impressive number of books about feminism. Shitty appears to have something against pants, and his hair keeps clogging the shower drain, but Jack can't help but like him.

The only time Shitty lets on that he knows who Jack is is the first time he smokes after moving in. He flops down on the couch next to Jack, who's in the middle of an episode of _Breaking Bad_ , and puts his feet up on the coffee table. "So," he says, conversationally, "I'm going to venture a guess you don't want to talk about the whole drugs thing, but do you give a fuck if I smoke out on the roof?" The way he says it somehow makes it clear that Jack can absolutely say no, and that makes it easier for him to tell Shitty it's fine, he can handle being around pot. Shitty claps him on the shoulder and winks. "You're a good dude, Zimmermann. Holler if you need me."

It's the most comfortable Jack's felt around anyone in a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> worth noting: because of american election schedules, this fic takes place in 2012. oops. also, the weird coordinated dance ransom and holster are doing at one point? it's the cotton eye joe

Larissa hops up onto the counter at half past six one morning and pokes Jack in the side with her foot. “How’s life with Barty?” she asks.

“Shitty,” Jack corrects, then backtracks as her face falls. “Not...not life with him. Shitty’s his name. He goes by, uh, Shitty.”

“The fuck?” A customer with a toddler on her hip looks up sharply and glares at Larissa, who beams and waves at her. “The fuck kinda name is _Shitty_?”

Jack starts pulling himself a shot of espresso, because Larissa seems way too perky for this hour.

“The kind you get when you’re named Bartholemew and you play college hockey, apparently.” He shrugs and downs the shot. “He’s also the type to walk around in nothing but a crop top and tiny shorts, and he smokes more weed than anyone I’ve ever met, and he keeps trying to have discussions with me about ‘the shifting landscape of gendered language’ and shit like that.”

Larissa snorts. “He sounds like a fucking _treasure_.”

“You picked well, I think? I wouldn’t’ve chosen to live with him on my own, but he’s a good guy. Still not sure how well he’s going to do at the whole lawyering thing, though.”

“Crop tops are totally courtroom appropriate.”

“I actually heard him telling one of his friends that the other day. I’m not sure if I should be worried.”

“And he doesn’t talk about…” Larissa trails off and waves her hand. Jack knows what she means, and he shakes his head. “Well, we could’ve picked worse, clearly. Is he hot, though? Because I still think you should’ve gone with abs guy.”

“Ah, but would abs guy have brought a limited edition Pokeball clock? I don’t think so.”

Larissa covers her mouth. “Since when do you know what a Pokeball is?”

“Larissa, I was a kid in the late nineties, I know what a damn Pokeball is.”

“Says the man who asked me if Justin Bieber was a _Backstreet Boy_.”

Jack throws a rag at her head. “That was _one time_.”

“And I’m never going to let you live it down. When am I going to meet this Shitty, though?”

“He’s, uh, throwing a little housewarming thing this Saturday, I think.” Jack scratches the back of his head. “He told me I could invite friends, and you’re, uh. My friend?”

Larissa grins and kicks him again. “Of course I’m your friend, you fucking dweeb.” She hops off the counter and rings up a customer quickly. Once she’s handed the guy his medium coffee and bran muffin she turns back to Jack. “What time?”

“Seven-ish?” Jack guesses.

“I’ll be there.”

 

 

“This is supposed to be a _little housewarming thing_?” Larissa asks when Jack meets her outside. The party has spilled out of the apartment and into the small front yard they share with the other two apartments in their building. “I could hear it from down the street, jesus.”

“I don’t think Shitty’s familiar with the concept with moderation.”

“Apparently not.” Larissa grabs a drink out of someone’s hand and just grins when the guy flips her off. She takes a swig. “Come on, introduce me to this Shitty guy.”

Jack squints up at the people dancing on the roof, and thinks he sees Shitty amongst them, so he starts leading Larissa through the crowd, using his size to clear a path past the beer pong tables set up in the yard and into the building.

Between the late August heat and the masses of people, he’s sweating by the time he makes it to the second floor and climbs out the window to join the group out there, Larissa right behind him. “Shitty,” he calls.

Shitty turns around, beaming and clearly drunk off his ass. “JAAAAACK!” he shouts. “Come dance with us!” He grabs Jack’s hand and pulls him in close, singing something about wishes and wells. Jack thinks he’s vaguely familiar with the song, but he hasn’t even finished his first beer -  he’s nowhere near drunk enough to dance the way Shitty is, loose and laughing and fucking up most of the lyrics.

“Shitty, this is Larissa,” Jack calls over the music.

Shitty’s whole face lights up. “LARISSAAAAAAA!” He pushes Jack over to where Ransom and Holster are doing some weird coordinated dance, and Jack watches as he wraps Larissa up in his arms and declares that it is _so_ nice to meet her and he _knew_ Jack had friends hiding somewhere, and here’s his number, so call him maybe.

Jack rolls his eyes at the scene, but he can’t help but feel incredibly fond of them both.

 

 

“BEER PONG CHAMPS 2K TWELVE,” Shitty shouts as he comes plowing back into the apartment, Larissa on his shoulders with a foam sword in one hand, a beer in the other. Jack is sitting on the couch, drinking his second beer and talking to the guys who live downstairs, whose apartment has somehow also become part of the party grounds. They’re good guys, Jack thinks, if not particularly interesting.

Shitty makes a beeline for Jack and plops himself down on the couch between Jack and Ollie. Larissa stays on his shoulders, sipping her beer and drumming a rhytm on Shitty’s head with the foam sword.

“Dude,” Shitty says, paying no heed to the conversation he’s interrupting. “You have the _coolest boss._ ” Larissa grins and hits him in the head with the sword again. Shitty beams back up at her. “Ultimate pong queen, bro.”

Lardo tosses the sword away. It hits an unsuspecting kid in the face, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Reigning supreme since 2007,” she says seriously. “Division one.”

“Lards, shut the fuck up, they totally don’t have divisions for beer pong.”

Larissa runs her hands through his hair. “Shh, just because you’re not good enough to get invited to them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Excuse you, at least ten percent of that victory was mine.”

“Lards?” Jack asks.

“Larissa Duan...Lardo...Lards,” Shitty says, like it’s the most obvious thing ever. Jack’s just glad he hasn’t been subjected to Shitty’s nicknaming yet (or at least, not beyond a botched attempt at calling Jack Zimms once - one look at Jack’s face and the nicknaming stopped).

Jack nods, then looks up at the Pokeball clock above the stove. It’s almost midnight - he’s subjected himself to enough of this, and can probably get away with hiding in his room and trying to sleep, if he can with all the noise. Larissa’s already given him the next morning off, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about that, but even on his days off he likes to run before eight, and he values his sleep.

“Jack. My man. Don’t you fuckin’ dare go to bed,” Shitty says, noticing the way Jack’s eyeing his bedroom door.

“Shitty, it’s midnight.”

“Firstly, it’s eleven fifty two, big difference. Second, no.”

“Jack needs his beauty sleep,” Larissa tells Shitty, who laughs.

“One night of fun isn’t going to kill him. Also, I’m pretty sure at least three people are having sex in there right now, so, like…” Shitty shrugs.

Jack rubs his temples and groans.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: more group bonding! more alluding to whatever the fuck happened to jack! the return of kent parson!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay the return of kent parson has been pushed to next chapter because this one was turning into a BEAST
> 
> also i've been told i'm obligated to warn you guys bitty doesn't show up until chapter 8 probably but i promise lots of interesting stuff happens before then let's all cry about parse/jack
> 
> ps we're into october now september didn't matter that's all bye

“And so just, like, fuck Harvard. Fuck expectations, fuck capitalism, fuck capitalism as it relates to education, fuck -”

“Shitty.” Jack rolls over to face Shitty, who’s made his way into Jack’s bed for the third time since the semester started. “It’s four AM. _Please_ just sleep. Rage against the man tomorrow.”

Shitty sighs, but he stops talking and tucks himself back under Jack’s arm, and soon enough he’s snoring again.

 

Jack’s alarm goes off forty minutes later, and he silences it as quickly as possible before crawling out from his space between Shitty and the wall and heading for the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, then heads back into his bedroom and gets dressed in the dark, careful not to wake Shitty, who’s now sprawled out over Jack’s entire bed. Jack’s quiet as he heads through the kitchen and out the door. He bikes down to the Swallow and has the door unlocked and coffee brewed by five, and settles himself in for another long shift.

Einhardt’s shift starts at 6:30, and by then business has picked up, Jack staving off his Shitty-induced exhaustion with espresso while he helps customer after customer. Now that they’re into October, the Swallow is packed with students most of the time. Students who order the cheapest drinks and then mooch off of the wifi for hours, but whatever, Jack’s been there.

The morning rush finally cools off around nine, and Jack heads back to do dishes while Eindhardt covers the front. Jack likes dish duty - he gets to put on his favorite CDs and get caught up in the rhythm of washing and sanitizing, Chad Kroeger’s raspy voice wafting from the kitchen speakers.

He’s about halfway through the giant stack of dishes from the rush when the kitchen door bangs open and Shitty strides in, wearing his Harvard crop top and jeans. “My ears are _bleeding_ , Jack, turn it the fuck off.”

Jack hits pause on the CD player. “Don’t you have class?”

“In like...eight minutes, so whatever.” Jack doesn’t point out that Harvard is two T stops and a walk away. “Lards promised me free coffee this morning since I finally sent her the tub juice recipe last night. She here?”

“Haven’t seen her yet today.” Jack picks up where he left off with the dishes.

“Son of a fuck, I need caffeine and Eindhardt never respects Lardo’s free coffee promises.” Shitty pulls out his phone and dials. “Laaaaaardoooo,” he whines. “I want my coffeeeeeee. But I have class.” He makes a face. “Eat my entire ass, you fuck. Mmhmm. Love you too. Okie-doke. Bye.” He turns back to Jack. “Lardo says that you have to make me my coffee.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but he grabs a paper towel and dries his hands as Shitty leads him back out to the main room. “What am I making you today?”

Shitty squints up at the menu for a minute, tapping a finger on his chin. “Give me a large hatty, but, hmm. Go hard on the chocolate, swap the caramel for vanilla, plus whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon.”

“If your drinks weren’t such a pain in the ass, Eindhardt wouldn’t ignore you, you know.”

“But where’s the fun in boring drinks? Come on, bro.”

Jack shakes his head but makes it, then hands it over to Shitty, who throws his bag over one shoulder and heads for the door. Jack’s about to go grab the drying dishes to put them away when the door flies open again and Shitty comes back in.

“Jack!” he shouts. Several customers glare, but Shitty ignores them. “Bee tee dubs, you left your phone at home and it’s been ringing off the hook, forgot to tell you!” He pulls it out of his bag and tosses it at Jack, who catches it, glad that he’s got enough hand-eye coordination to save himself from another broken screen. (He doesn’t understand why he has to have a smartphone, but his dad keeps giving them to him, and he’s not going to decline, even if all he needs his phone to do is call and maybe text people.) “Later, boo!”

With that, Shitty’s back out the door, and according to the clock on Jack’s phone, only fifteen minutes late for class so far. Along with the time, his phone is displaying four missed calls and two voicemails, all from  his dad. He sighs and waves the phone in Eindhardt’s direction. “Do you mind if I go listen to these?”

Eindhardt shrugs. “Whatever you gotta do, man.”

Jack heads back into the relative silence of the kitchen and hits play on the first of the voicemails. “Jack, hello, it’s your father. If you could call me back, that’d be great. Thanks.” Jack deletes it, then hits play on the second. “Son? Are you at work? Call me as soon as you can. Nothing too urgent, don’t worry, just get in touch with me ASAP.”

Jack’s pretty sure he knows what his dad wants, so he taps the call back button. His dad picks up on the second ring. “Jack!”

“Hi, Dad,” Jack says. “How are you?”

“Same old, same old. Are you at work?”

“Yeah, but it’s slow, I can talk. How’s the campaign?”

Bob chuckles, but Jack can tell he’s nervous. “Listen, that’s actually why I’m calling - things have been great so far, and I don’t want to pull you from your life, but it’d look good to have you by my side for the last couple of weeks, just to show, you know. Family sticking together, and that you’re...”

Bob pauses, so Jack finishes his sentence for him. “That I’m not passed out in a dumpster somewhere again?” he asks. He tries to make it sound like a joke, but it comes out harsh and bitter, and his dad goes on before he can apologize.

“I was going to say that you’re doing well.” There’s a moment of silence, and then, “You are doing well, right?”

“I’m fine, Dad. No dumpsters.”

“Could you make it up here by Saturday? There’s a dinner I’d like to have you at.”

“Yeah. Uh, I’ll look at bus schedules tonight and clear it with my boss.”

“Good. Thank you, Jack. I’ll let you get back to work now.”

“Thanks. Um, bye.”

Jack hangs up and tries to pretend his hands aren’t shaking.

 

 

When Jack gets home after his shift, Shitty and Lardo are staked out on the couch, playing what Jack thinks is Mario Kart, though Lardo pauses it when Jack comes in.

“What’s this about Maine I hear?” she asks.

Jack hangs his jacket on the back of the door. “My dad wants me there for the next couple of weeks so he can finish up his campaign.”

“Bro,” Lardo groans. “I’m gonna have to hire new people if you do that. I hate hiring new people.”

Shitty perks up. “Can I hire them for you?”

“Absolutely not. Seriously, can you get out of it?”

“Bro,” Shitty says to Lardo. “Papa Z’s opponents have been implying Jack’s high in a dumpster again.” He shoots an apolgetic look at Jack. “Sorry, dude, it’s true. No better way to counteract the rumors than a bunch of public appearances.”

Lardo throws a pillow at Jack. “Fine, go protect your dad’s reputation, _whatever._ ”

  
  


Jack spends most of the five hour bus ride to Rockland rereading _Guns, Germs, and Steel_ and listening to Nickelback, trying to ignore the knot of panic building in his chest. He hasn’t been back to Maine since before he left Yale, and that had just been a summer trip with Kent, drinking on the beach and making out and getting roasted by the summer sun. Despite the house there, Rockland’s never really been home - between being a kid in Montreal and then years of boarding school and college, his ties to Maine have always been weak. But his dad’s senator, so he’ll do what he has to. He’ll smile for the camera and wear his suit and avoid anything he can get fucked up on, and he’ll get his dad reelected and then leave for another six years.

 

His mom’s waiting for him at the bus stop, and as soon as Jack gets in the car she starts chattering in French, filling Jack in on everything that’s happened in the campaign so far, though she skims over the rumors the other candidates have been spreading. Not that it matters - after Shitty had brought them up, Jack had spent some time reading up on them, and none of it had been true; yes, he’s doing his best to live his life privately now, but privacy and popping pills aren’t the same thing, and Jack’s been clean for almost two years now.

“Anyway,” she tells him as she pulls into the driveway, “your father’s the clear winner, but we’ve still got to go through the motions. So we’ve just to survive a few dinners and then back to normal.” Jack doesn’t know when Alicia started acknowledging that these dinners and events were something to survive, but the way she says it makes him feel like they’re presenting a unified front, and he’s grateful.

 

The dinner party is boring, the food is bland, and Jack’s collar feels too tight. But Bob is at his best - weaving through the crowd, working the room - so Jack supports him and avoids the champagne, playing the neutral, _normal_ son, talking about his “hiatus” from academia when people ask. The room is stifling, and Jack hates feeling like this weird shadow of himself, but he only has to for a couple weeks. Just a dozen or so dinner parties and galas and fundraisers, and then Bob will be reelected and Jack can go home.

He tells himself the same thing at the next party, and the one after, and the afternoon picnic after that, and the days all kind of blur together, letting Jack run on autopilot - he wakes up, runs through town and out on the breakwater, heads home, showers, goes to the event of the day, ignores the constant hum of anxiety, smiles at the right people, rinses, repeats.

The only thing that breaks up the monotony is his phone, constantly buzzing with messages from his friends in Boston. It’s a group message, so even if he ignores it, more messages will keep rolling in until he can slip away and check it, reading Shitty’s party updates and Lardo’s complaints about the new employees and Ransom and Holster’s weird codes and inside jokes at each other.

Maine feels a little less like hell with them just a text away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also i'm now on twitter @7breadlysins mostly crying about omgcp and this fic


	4. Chapter 4

Halloween dawns bright and clear, the air cold and biting through Jack’s lungs as he runs. He stops for a coffee on the way back to his house, and no less than four people in line tell Jack they’re voting for his father, and then in the same breath ask if he remembers that it snowed on Halloween last year. He laughs and thanks them and drinks his watery coffee, then trucks it out of there as quickly as he can.

He heads back to the house and showers before pulling on sweatpants and making himself an omelette. He’s halfway through eating it when his phone buzzes with a new message from Shitty. He opens it, and it’s a picture of their door, a bunch of tacky Halloween decorations attached to it, as well as a few pumpkins with rough penis shapes carved into them. The caption reads “PARTY PREPPPPPPP” and Jack smiles to himself before texting back. _If you get arrested again I’m not bailing you out_ , he types. Shitty just sends back a long stream of emojis.

Jack’s day is otherwise uneventful. He carves a few less crude pumpkins with his mom and hangs up some ghost and spider decorations before the first wave of trick-or-treaters start to roll in around five. He compliments a few tiny princesses, ignores their moms taking pictures of him with them, and hands out king-sized candy bars to each of them.

“What are you supposed to be?” a little girl asks him after she takes her candy bar, scowling.

“A Canadian?” Jack tries, crouching in front of her. He never dresses up for Halloween - it’s just not his thing.

The girl looks unimpressed. “That’s not a real costume.”

“I’m sorry. Next year I’ll dress up.”

The little girl shakes her head, then takes the tiara off of her head and stands on her tiptoes to set it on Jack’s head. “Now you’re a princess too.” She turns on her heel and runs down the Zimmermanns’ walkway to catch up with the group she was with.

There are two more groups of kids after that, then a lull, so Jack checks his phone. His friends have all sent him more pictures of the decorations - there’s now a pumpkin with a vagina artfully carved into it (captioned “for equality” by Lardo), as well as a banner hung on the wall over the couch that used to read “TRICK OR TREAT,” only the first TR has been torn off and replaced by a D sharpied onto the wall.

Jack’s never getting his security deposit back.

Ransom sends him a picture of all four of them in costume as the Scooby Doo cast, a stuffed dog acting as their Scooby. Jack laughs, then takes a picture of himself with the tiara on and sends it to all of them.

_BRB PRINTING THAT OUT AND HANGING IT ON THE WALL 4EVER_ , Shitty replies. Holster sends Jack a screencap of it as his phone background. Jack misses them all like hell.

He’s distracted from his phone by another wave of trick-or-treaters, all talking animatedly about how excited they are for Wreck-It Ralph. He compliments their costumes and hands out candy, smiling awkwardly at the woman with them when she shoots a wink his way.

As it gets darker the trickle of kids gets steadier, and Jack has to ignore his phone buzzing in his pocket as the groups get bigger and closer together - he’s pretty sure word is out by now that they have king-sized candy bars, and that more or less guarantees that they’ll be the busiest house in town all night. He loses track of how many pictures he has to pose for, superheroes and witches and robots and princesses all blending together.

Things finally slow down when it starts getting colder, the masses of kids giving way to smaller groups of teenagers in half-assed costumes and the occasional group of drunk twenty-somethings. Jack finally checks his phone, and the series of increasingly incoherent texts from his friends makes it clear that Shitty’s Halloween party is in full swing.

Jack looks down at the dwindling supply of candy, then heads inside, figuring that they’re not going to get enough people at this point to justify staying out in the cold when he could be inside, watching the History Channel’s Halloween special and texting his friends.

_BRO_ , Shitty texts him around eleven, right when Jack’s starting to consider just going to bed. _BRO WE NEED TO SKYPE WITH U_

Jack shakes his head at his phone, but grabs his laptop off the table and opens it. As soon as he’s got it open, a call from Shitty comes in.

Shitty’s clearly on his phone, and their apartment is _packed._ “Jack! Bro!” Shitty shouts, clearly drunk off his ass already. Holster crams into the frame next to him and grins, waving before Ransom shoves him out of the way, his red wig askew.

“Dude,” Ransom says, “party of the fucking _year_ and you’re not even here.”

The top of Lardo’s head appears in the frame, and Shitty angles the phone down to include her. She takes a sip of her drink, looking more sober than the rest of them. “Nice tiara,” she says. Jack groans - he forgot he was wearing it.

“Anyway,” Shitty says, tilting the phone back up and stretching out the word. “We wanted to include you in this glory and that is why the good lord invented Skype. Also, I think someone threw up in our bathtub again.”

“Please don’t let anyone into my room,” Jack tells him.

Shitty makes some sort of hand motion. “Cross my heart and hope to fuckin’ die, bro.”

Jack’s about to thank him when a shrill beeping comes through the phone. “Is that the fire alarm?” he asks, because he’s pretty sure it is.

Shitty’s eyes go wide. “Oh fuck. Ohhhhh, fuck.” He ends the Skype call, leaving Jack sitting on his couch, deeply worried for the state of the apartment.

A text comes in a couple minutes later from Lardo. _shitty’s jack-off-o-lantern fell over. we’re good tho, holtzy dumped his beer on it before the fire spread past the couch. minimal damage._ Jack’s briefly reassured, but then a text from Ransom comes in of Holster posed next to their couch, which has been charred past the point of no return, throwing a thumbs up at the camera. It’s captioned _OUR HERO,_ and Jack groans.

_Please don’t set anything else on fire,_ he replies. _I’m going to bed, have a good night!!_

 

 

He doesn’t receive any emergency calls in the middle of the night, thankfully, so he gets to sleep until seven. When he wakes up, there are dozens of texts waiting for him, mostly picture messages. There’s one of the group, costumes askew, now featuring a real dog, captioned by Shitty with _we replaced u, bro, meet scoobs,_ and Jack’s very worried about _how_ they got that dog, and texts everyone a series of question marks.

He goes for his run, skipping the shitty coffee on the way home today. When he gets out of the shower and heads for the kitchen, his dad’s up, already making Jack’s usual breakfast for both of them. Jack sits down at the island and his dad slides a plate in front of him, the silence comfortable while they both eat.

Jack’s cleaning up when his dad clears his throat. “Jack?”

“Hmm?”

“I wanted to say thank you. I know it’s a hassle to come up here, but you’ve been great, and I’m so glad you’re doing well. I’m, uh, I’m proud of you, son.”

“Thank you,” Jack says, glad he can keep rinsing their plates so he doesn’t have to make awkward eye contact. He’s never done well with praise from his dad - there’s always been either too much of it or too little, and Jack doesn’t know how to respond.

Bob claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder, and Jack jumps, not having heard him get up. “I know you’ve been through a lot, and just. You’ve got it together.”

“It’s not Yale,” Jack mutters, not looking at his dad.

“It doesn’t need to be, Jack,” Bob replies, soft. “I just want you to be happy, and it looks like you are.”

Jack nods, not trusting himself to say anything else. Bob squeezes his shoulder once, then walks away, Jack taking deep breaths while he listens to his dad retreating.

 

 

The next few days are a rush of activity, culminating in the chaos of election day, but at the end of it all, Robert Zimmermann is elected to another term as Maine senator.

 

 

Jack stays until that Friday, then is finally free from the interviews and parties and can go home. The bus ride home feels shorter than the one to Maine did, and when he gets to South Station, his friends are waiting for him.

They envelop him in a group hug as soon as he comes through the door, all talking over each other about things that happen while he was gone. Shitty holds his hand as they head towards the T, telling Jack the story of how they’d sort of accidentally adopted a dog before finding out it belonged to the people who lived upstairs. “ _Lived_ being the operating word,” Shitty says, “seeing as after the Halloween party, they’ve decided to move as far away from us as possible.”

“Which means,” Ransom cuts in, “Holster and I are abso-fuckin-lutely moving in.” He fistbumps Holster.

Jack groans.

 

 

He goes back to work Sunday afternoon. It’s not his usual shift, but Lardo’s been having trouble scheduling the new employees, and she can’t get him back to mornings until the next week.

When he gets there, three of the new hires are on, and the store is a mess. Two of the guys are shouting at each other about expiration dates on dairy when he walks in, while the third keeps trying and failing to interrupt them.

They shut up when they see Jack, who’s just watching them with his arms crossed.

“Are you Jack?” the third one says. “Lardo told us you were coming back today! I’m Chris, but you can call me Chowder.”

Jack shakes his hand. The other two guys introduce themselves as Dex and Nursey, glaring at each other the whole time. “I’m Jack,” Jack says once they’ve calmed down a little.

Chowder starts going on and on about stuff that’s happened in the store in the last week, while Nursey finally sweeps the disaster zone around the pastry case. Jack starts wiping down the counters, glad he only has to work with these kids today.

He’s about to restock the retail fridge when he hears the doorbell chime, so he wipes his hands and turns around and.

Oh.

Kent Parson sees Jack right after Jack sees him. Kent’s eyes go wide for a moment, looking Jack up and down before looking him in the eye, expression shifting from shock to confusion to the same old easy smirk Jack remembers all too well.

“Kent,” Jack breathes out.

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent says. He’d sound confident to anyone less intimately familiar with all of his tells, but Jack can hear the shakiness in his words.  “Didja miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shrieks abt my trash son showing up forever
> 
> huge shoutout to the twitter crew for the beta and for putting up with my weird tweets about this project


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [looks at when i last updated this] [laughs humorlessly]
> 
> (real life happened)
> 
> cw for a panic attack in this chapter, by the way
> 
> huge thanks to everyone who gave feedback!!

Jack looks at Kent and tries to breathe, and he just _can’t._ He doesn’t have something clever to say - he doesn’t have _anything_ to say, because _Kent_ is standing there, in a plaid shirt that can’t be enough to keep him warm against the November chill, looking just like he did two years ago - same dumb cowlick, same insincere smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Jack doesn’t know how long he’s just _staring,_ leaving Kent’s question unanswered (though _of course_ Jack missed him, that’s the dumbest question Jack’s ever been asked), but apparently it’s too long - Kent takes a step closer, smirk dropping off of his face. “Jack?” he says, softer, and Jack just _can’t do it._

“I have to go bake more scones,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady before walking away as fast as he can, feeling like his chest is hollow and too tight at the same time, like he can’t keep his hands still, like the world is going fuzzy around him as he heads for the kitchen.

Once he’s there, he closes the door behind him and locks it, and then he sinks to the floor and lets the panic flood over him, because he’s not stopping this attack - the second Kent walked through the door of the Swallow, it was guaranteed Jack would end up here, on the floor while the world quivers in his periphery, like the walls are melting and Jack’s back in his dorm room with Kent wrapped around him, and he’s on the cold floor of the kitchen but he’s also in the locker room where they first met on that day in ninth grade, and he’s -

He takes a deep breath and runs his hands along the tile of the floor, trying to anchor himself in the present, but it doesn’t do shit - there’s a reason he tries to avoid thinking about Kent, and it’s that everything with Kent has always been too much, whether it’s drunk handjobs or shouting matches or summers spent wasting the days away together. His anxiety around Kent’s always been like that too - too fucking intense and all-consuming.

His thoughts barely make sense - a stream of memories and guilt and want and regret all tumbling together until none of the thoughts or feelings are distinct, college parties and lazy mornings and two AM Walmart runs all blending together into an incoherent blur. He’s fourteen and playing hockey in gym class, and he’s seventeen and kissing his best friend, and he’s twenty and holding a bottle of pills that’s too empty and he’s -

He’s on the floor of the kitchen at the Swallow. He is twenty-two, and he is crying but he’s here and he hasn’t touched his pills in two years, but he’d fucking kill for one now, just so he can stop fucking shaking and he hopes nobody can hear the sounds he’s making as he rips breath after breath out of his too-tight lungs.

He’s too hot, every inch of his skin overheating, so he pulls off his sweater and throws it into the corner, and then he’s freezing but he’s still sweating, and he should be out front doing his job but that’s just another fucking thing he can’t do right, apparently, and it’s absurd that he ever thought he could manage any of this, and -

Breathing. He can do breathing.

(He’s not really sure he can do breathing.)

He presses his palms to the tile again, which is cold against his hands, and he tries to focus on the smoothness and where it meets the grout, running his fingers along the divide and focusing on the sensation while he tries to think about things that have nothing to do with Kent Parson. _George Washington, February twenty-second, 1732. John Adams, October thirtieth, 1735._ He’s up to Fillmore by the time he can breathe, and by Coolidge his ribcage feels like it’s back where it belongs, even if his heart’s still beating faster than it has any right to.

He leans his head back against the door and takes deep breaths, counting in and out while he keeps running birthdays through his head, and he’s almost got the panic completely contained when his phone buzzes in his back pocket. He digs it out and glances down at the screen, where a text from Lardo is waiting. He takes another breath and makes his eyes focus on the words. _chowder says ur not feeling so hot - u can take off early if u need 2 <3_, it reads. Jack shoots back a message, just _Stomach problems, yeah. Thanks._

Once he feels like he can move, he stands, stretching his arms as he gets to his feet and focuses on keeping his breathing steady. He leaves through Lardo’s office, glad he knows the unlock code and doesn’t have to go back into the main body of the Swallow - someday he’s sure he’ll be able to look at Kent without losing his shit, but today is not that day, and he just wants to get home. So he locks Lardo’s door behind him and heads for the T.

 

 

When he gets back to the apartment, Shitty is sprawled out on the couch, eating pretzels and flipping through one of his textbooks. Jack waves in his direction, intending to head straight for his room and hide there for a bit, but Shitty stops him.

“Bro, you look like ass,” Shitty points out. Jack shoots him a look. “No offense, man, just - fuck, you okay?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s nothing, just weird stomach shit,” he says, figuring it’ll be easier if he just keeps his story straight.

Shitty sets his book and snack on the table, then walks over to Jack and hugs him, just latches on and holds Jack tight, and Jack’s done crying but he’s almost ready to lose it again, now - he’s never held up well in the face of real support, and he’s got that from Shitty.

“I know you’re not really into talking about things,” Shitty says, voice muffled against Jack’s shoulder, “but I’m always here to listen, bro.” Jack nods, not really trusting himself to say anything. “And, like,” Shitty continues, “you could always tell me about whatever through, like, hypothetical shit? Tell me a story about some dude named Zack Jimmermann, total stranger.”

Jack laughs, but it actually - it doesn’t sound like the worst thing, telling someone about how he ended up here, someone other than a therapist paid to listen to him whine. And it’s Shitty - he’s not the type to judge Jack, and he won’t go selling the story to tabloids.

“I’ll think about it,” Jack says, then squeezes Shitty tight and heads for his room - he’s not ready to talk now, but Shitty’s not going anywhere - he’ll still be there if Jack takes a nap and a shower and then still wants to talk about it.

Sure enough, when Jack emerges from his room a few hours later, Shitty’s still there, surrounded by his notes and snacks. He looks up when Jack comes out and offers a smile, so Jack makes his way to the couch and sits on the end opposite Shitty, pulling his feet up onto the cushion so that he’s taking up less space. Shitty’s posture is open and inviting and Jack -

Jack talks.

It’s weird, talking about himself in the third person, but it’s easier too. So he sits, curled on the couch, and he talks about Zack Jimmermann, total stranger. He tells Shitty about Zack growing up weird and awkward and lonely just outside of Montreal, about moving to the States for middle school so his dad could run for senator, about transferring to boarding school for high school and meeting - he pauses here, trying to come up with the right name - _Pent Karson,_ he finally comes up with. He talks about Zack growing into himself but not growing out of the awkwardness or the constant worry, and about what it was like to finally have someone at his back when dealing with his peers and his anxiety and about the inevitability of falling in love with that someone.

Shitty doesn’t interrupt while Jack goes on to talk about rooming together for junior and senior years, about the handjobs and the alcohol and Jack’s first anxiety meds. He lets Jack talk about Yale, and the fights, and being so in love it _hurt_ , and how even when he and Kent - “Pent,” he corrects quickly - established that it all meant something, they were both too fucked up over each other and too fucked up on vodka and meds and whatever the fuck else they could get a hold of to care for each other or themselves properly. “And then Zack ODed and went to rehab and moved to Boston,” Jack says with a shrug. “And now apparently Pent is also in Boston, and Zack doesn’t know how to deal with that.”

Shitty nods, slowly. “Has Zack considered _talking_ to Pent?”

“Zack saw Pent and had a panic attack at work,”

“Fair enough. Would Zack _want_ to talk to him, in a more controlled situation?”

Jack shrugs. “Maybe?”

“So let’s say Zack has a friend. Let’s call him…Titty.” Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt. “Let’s say Titty and Zack’s other friends met Pent while Zack was away, because they all hang out at the same coffeeshop. Where, coincidentally, Zack works. Would Zack want Pent to...not hang out there for a while? Maybe not until after they’ve talked in the aforementioned more controlled situation?”

Jack thinks about it, then nods - he doesn’t want Shitty too involved in this, but he can’t have a repeat of today’s shift in the future.

Shitty reaches over and pats Jack’s knee. “Coolio, bro. Go read your weird history books or whatever it is you do in your free time - I’ll take care of it.”

 

 

True to his word, Shitty keeps Kent from showing up at the Swallow during any of Jack’s shifts again, and Jack takes the time to consider what sitting down with Kent and talking their shit out would actually be like. It’s terrifying to consider, in some ways - they’ve never been good at just talking - but he’s starting to think that maybe it would be a good thing. If they’re in the same city, it’s probably better to get it over with and not have the constant fear that he’s going to bump into Kent on the T or at CVS hanging over his head, and he thinks that maybe the years since what happened will give them enough space to deal with it like adults.

Or it could go horribly, but.

_I could be ready to talk to Kent,_ he texts Shitty a few weeks after their conversation. Shitty just replies with a bunch of emojis, followed by _will make it happen broski_ and then more emojis.

Jack doesn’t know what to expect, but he thinks he’s ready.

 

 

He’s not ready.

He realizes this two nights later, when their building is packed with people for Ransom and Holster’s moving in party. A solidly drunk Shitty presses a beer into Jack’s hand and drapes an arm over his shoulder. “Jack! Bro! So, you told me you were ready, and I believe in you, man, I believe in you so fucking much. Moral of the story is, Pent fucking Karson has been delivered to your room. You got this,” he says, and then disappears, leaving Jack standing there, beer in his hand and no idea how to handle this.

But he can’t just leave Kent in his room, and he can’t send someone up to deal with it for him, so he braces himself and heads upstairs.

He pushes the door open, and Kent’s sitting at his desk.

“Zimms,” he says softly.

**Author's Note:**

> title from the national's pink rabbits, which is a great song to cry about jack zimmermann to. (there will probably be a whole playlist to go with this eventually.)
> 
> i'm shitty at long projects so sorry if updates are kind of slow on this. whoops.


End file.
